The pilot light is out again

The pilot light is out again

and the kitchen floor is a sheet of ice.

I’m standing over the stainless steel sink

because the table feels too much like a commitment.

The cornflakes are generic, mostly dust,

pouring out with a dry, papery sound.

I don't bother with a spoon, just the tilt

of the chipped bowl and the silence of the room.

The milk is turning that pale, sickly yellow

against the ceramic, cold enough to ache.

I swallow it down in the dark,

just sugar and grit and the weight of being awake.